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He’s awoken by a crashing from his balcony– the sound of shattering glass, the shadow of someone moving, stumbling into his door. He lurches from his bed, adrenaline flaring in his gut. Assassin, his mind helpfully supplies as he unsheathes his sword, aether pooling in his chest, waiting to strike–
The doors slam open. His sword falls from his grasp, clatters to the floor.
Only years of training have given him the reflexes to catch him afore he collapses, cradling the armored form of the one he holds most dear as he lowers them both to the ground.
“Estinien?” he whispers with no small amount of relief. Estinien doesn’t appear to have heard him, however, sprawled across his floor, gauntlets digging into the sides of his head. Aymeric says his name again, louder. Shakes his shoulders. Still– nothing. The pounding of his heart in his ears quiets enough that he can hear him, muttering under his breath–
Estinien Varlineau, Captain of the Knight’s Dragoon– A-azure of Ishgard. Estinien Varlineau, Cap– a pause, a choked, mangled sound– Captain of the Knight’s Dragoon, Azure of Ishgard–
A common technique, one he recognizes well. Taught to all new recruits as one of their first lessons.
Words to withstand torture, if captured by the enemy. Panic lances through him, swift as levin.
“Estinien!” he barks, lacing every syllable with as much command as he can muster. Estinien jerks, startles, flinches all at once, falls back on his haunches. And then, from below the beak of his helm, he catches sight of his eyes.
Pupils dilated, lids wide and frantic, darting hither and thither as he mumbles, lips bitten raw and bloody. And there is– something, lurking there below the churning storm’s blue. Something he cannot explain yet which sets him on edge, bids him beware. A reddish tinge, as if glowing from within. Estinien winces, grabs his head once more.
“I will not,” he hears, ground out between teeth snapped tight. He snarls, fingers digging to his temples so tightly a rivulet of blood leaks down the side of his jaw. Aymeric snatches at his hands, holds them fast in front of him as Estinien struggles afore he tears his skin from his face.
“Look at me,” he pleads, searching Estinien’s eyes for something– some manner of recognition. With his other hand he pops the release on his helm, gently tugs it off of his head. Estinien stares somewhere behind his shoulder, eyes unfocused, breathing hard. His fingers clench around Aymeric’s so tightly he’s sure on the morrow they will be black and blue. Aymeric’s hand slips to cup his face, thumb swiping away the blood that mars his skin.
“Now, Azure,” he commands. He cannot resist tucking a swathe of sweat-soaked bangs behind his ear, pinning their tangled hands close to his chest to hold him there.
After a long, agonizing moment, Estinien blinks, slowly, as if not sure what he is doing, and then finally, finally, achingly slow, turns his gaze upon his own. Dark circles mar his eyes, nothing unusual for his ill-fated friend, but his eyes– red and puffy, with tracks of dried tears running down the sides of his nose. Not one of his usual nightmares, he thinks. Nay, this is something more. Something worse .
A startled breath– fingers twitching–
“‘Meric,” Estinien gasps, and jumps as if he had not realized he was there. Aymeric sees him swallow, the wince that follows. “Lord Commander,” he tries again, voice a tattered rasp, as if he had spent the last bell screaming himself hoarse.
“Aye,” Aymeric agrees with a relief so profound it nearly topples him. Lucid, then, or near enough. Ardently, he combs Estinien’s hair away from his face, barely resists pressing a forceful kiss to his brow. “I have you,” he assures, for Estinien, and for himself most of all.
How long has it been, now? Years of nights filled with terror beyond his imaginings, of holding Estinien’s hair from his face as he lost his dinner, of diligently rubbing salves into skin mired with bruises at night whilst he’s too exhausted to protest. Ever since he took up that damnable armor, since he was remade as a Knight Dragoon. He had thought the worst of it over, now that his training was complete, now that the Eye had chosen him as its champion.
Clearly he had been wrong.
“Tell me what has happened,” he begs, holding Estinien’s gaze. He looks– lost. Terrified, as he’s never seen him. More tired than he thought a man capable of. The urge to wrap him in his quilt and force him to rest nearly overwhelms him.
“I–” he hears Estinien try, the choking noise that follows. He shudders, whole body shaking so forcefully his armor rattled beneath Aymeric’s fingers. Aymeric holds his fingers tightly once more as they try to drift back to his temples. Estinien snarls.
“Shut up.”
Aymeric flinches back. Estinien’s head snaps to his, eyes pleading. “Not you,” he gasps. “Gods, not you, Aymeric.” He stills, breath panting harshly between them. Inhales sharply, opens his mouth to speak–
He thinks himself prepared, for the words uttered next. Some manner of new secret torture he must undertake for his training, he assumes. And yet–
“He has awoken.”
For a long moment, all is still. A frigid breeze filters in through gaps of shattered glass, wafting between them as dread rimes over his gut, creeping over every ilm of him until he’s near drowning in it.
“Are–” he chokes on his words, hears them die in his throat. “Are you certain?” he whispers. Estinien flinches. Aymeric falls back, runs a hand through his hair. “Apologies, that was a stupid question.”
Awoken. The damnable Beast, awake. A million tasks suddenly need doing, all too late. One question rises above all others, clawing at his throat.
“How long do we have?” he asks numbly.
Estinien stares over his shoulder once more, eyes wide with terror, fingers trembling beneath his own. Aymeric laces their fingers together, for his own benefit as much as Estinien’s. Halone forgive him for seeking comfort in this moment of utter uncertainty.
“I don’t know,” Estinien chokes. “I don’t–” another wince. “He is so angry. His madness, his rage; before it was simply an– an annoyance, nothing more. Now,” he gasps, “now I see the true extent of his fury. ‘Tis as a gaping void, an endless Abyss of broiling flame, begging me to drink deep of his power.” He groans, slams his head back against the wall. “Fury, he is so buggering loud, I cannot hear myself think.” Another hiss. “Aymeric, I cannot– Gods, I cannot–”
Before he can think, he’s at his side, cupping his beloved face with shaking hands. “Listen to me,” he interrupts him, voice somehow steady despite the terror squeezing about his chest.
“You have trained for this your whole life,” he reminds him gently, yet firmly. “For every hour of every day you have dedicated yourself to this moment, to this terrible task.” His thumb brushes behind his ear, along the wisps of white hairs littering the side of his neck. He waits until Estinien meets his gaze. “Focus on the present,” he commands with a certainty he does not feel, “focus on your goal, as you have always done.”
He tucks the end of his ragged plait behind his shoulder, a hollow, bitter smile on his lips. “Your duty is not yet over, soldier.”
He knows not what fate awaits them on the morrow, nor if they have the strength to defend against an outright assault, should it come to that. Nothing is certain, and yet–
– he has faith in him, now and always. If there is anyone who can defeat such a great evil, it is Estinien.
Weary eyes flick between his own, searching. After a moment, Estinien bows his head, takes a deep, shuddering breath through his nose, out through his mouth. He nods, just the once, and sits a bit straighter.
His thigh knocks against some scrap of linen. He’s brought a bag, Aymeric realizes. The flap of it jostles, parts–
From within, an eerie red glow seeps into the room. Suspicion gnaws at him, every hair on his person rising.
“Is– is that–?”
Estinien glances beside him. Winces again, and then nods. Lifts the flap of the satchel with shaking fingers.
From within, Nidhogg’s Eye swivels to stare directly at him, its gaze burning as newly forged steel, piercing through his flesh as a dagger. Aymeric gasps, lurches to jerk the flap closed. Nausea churns in his gut. He turns on Estinien in disbelief.
“Why on Halone’s once green earth do you have– ”
“I must take it from the city,” Estinien interrupts with a hiss, tying the satchel closed and buckling it resolutely to his side. At Aymeric’s gape, he gentles. “His intent is fixed upon that which was once his, and you know as well as I our defenses will not hold.”
Aymeric bristles. “They might–”
“They will not hold,” Estinien insists, biting his lip once more. He shakes his head. His fingers slip from Aymeric’s grip, curl tightly in a fist, resolute. “I will lure him to the Wilds, and there we shall do battle.”
If the situation were not so dire, he would throttle him there upon his bedroom floor. “Are you out of your bloody wits?” Aymeric hisses, tempering his urges to instead shake his shoulders harshly. “The Holy See will not forgive this thievery, Estinien, Azure or no. To abscond with their most Holy Relic–”
Fear chokes him. Estinien, kneeling before his Father as his sentence is passed, tied and struggling as they drag him to the edge of Witchdrop–
“It does not matter, Aymeric!” Estinien hisses. “The Holy See, their bloody rules, any of it. He will come for what is his, and everyone in Ishgard shall burn.”
Aymeric holds him there, shaking. Estinien’s gaze softens. He reaches for Aymeric’s arm, curls his fingers about him.
“Unless I take it from here,” he finishes gently. “Aymeric, I must leave. Now, afore it’s too late.”
Aymeric stares at him, a thousand excuses rising to his lips. They need him here, here to defend the city. Here to lead the Dragoons into battle. Here at his side, where they might formulate a plan together. But the wisdom behind his words gnaws at him, stays his tongue.
In his heart, he knows he is right.
“Then we will leave now,” he resolves, and rises to his feet. “I’ll send word to the See, and we will make for Falcon’s Nest with all haste.”
Estinien stares at him. “You cannot come with me,” he says, voice tinged with disbelief. “Aymeric–”
“Like hells I can’t,” Aymeric interrupts, furious. “All your life you have trained for this moment. You think I would abandon you now to face him alone? He who has tormented you for as long as I’ve known you?”
Estinien stares at him. “You must,” he begs. “Aymeric, if I should fail–”
“You will not fail,” Aymeric insists. Estinien frowns.
“If I should fail,” Estinien says again, “you are needed here, to see to the defense. You’re the only hope this city has.”
“Did you not just say that our defenses will not hold?”
Estinien flinches. “They’ve a better chance with you than any other, you know this.”
“I will not leave you to fight this battle alone. I will not, Estinien, so save your bloody breath.”
“You cannot, Aymeric!” Estinien growls. “You must not be there when he arrives. Do you not understand?” He staggers, slumps back against the wall, holding his head with a wince. Aymeric takes a step forward, bracing his shoulder so he does not fall. Estinien ducks his head.
“If you are there, there is no hope of victory,” Estinien states wearily. Aymeric bristles, about to protest, yet Estinien grabs his hand, shakes his head. “‘Tis not a matter of your prowess in battle, Aymeric. ‘Tis mine own weakness which would lead our people to destruction.”
Aymeric squeezes Estinien’s shoulder, nudges his chin upwards with his thumb so that he might look at him. Estinien stares back, eyes wide and helpless.
“It takes every onze of will I have to stave him off, even now,” he says raggedly. His eyes drop. “What would I do, should He grasp you in his damnable clutches, should he make me choose?”
Aymeric swallows thickly. “You would do your duty,” he murmurs. Of that much, he has always been certain. Yet Estinien shakes his head, bitter laugh on his lips.
“Nay,” he whispers. “I would not.”
Aymeric freezes. “I do not understand,” he whispers. For a long moment, Estinien is silent, and then he deflates, as if all the fight has gone out of him.
“I would let him take me, Aymeric,” Estinien whispers, staring resolutely at the floor. “I would offer myself to him freely, to see you safe.”
Silence falls between them. Aymeric blinks, eyes stinging, stunned beyond words. Estinien slumps against the wall, the picture of exhaustion. His ears, Aymeric notices unhelpfully, are flushed bright red.
“That is why you cannot come, you bloody fool,” Estinien says gruffly, avoiding his gaze. “So– so stay here, where you are needed, and leave me to my duty.”
And then he grabs his helm, makes to leave back through the shattered glass whence he came–
Before Aymeric can grab a hold of his senses and call him back, Estinien pauses, turns his head over his shoulder. “There is one more thing. A– favor I must ask of you, though I know I deserve it not.”
Aymeric swallows. “Ask it,” he demands roughly.
Estinien’s fingers clench around his helm. “You must promise me, should I fail–” he pauses, clears his throat. “Should I fall to his influence, you will do your duty.” He turns to look at him. “You will strike me down.”
Aymeric freezes, heart shattering. “Estinien–”
“Promise me, Aymeric,” Estinien pleads. “If all should come to ruin, promise me you will not let me bring destruction upon our people. Promise me you will not let Him control me as a thrall, bound to his terrible will.”
Abruptly, he remembers when they were yet boys, struggling to survive to manhood. A quiet patrol, so they thought. The village they spotted in the distance, great plumes of smoke so thick they nearly blotted out the sun. Estinien sprinting towards it afore he could stop him; his hands filled with splinters, throat choking with ash as he dug through the rubble, searching, desperately searching–
Remembers the nightmares wrought upon him later that night, the cries in his sleep, calling for names of those long buried. Remembers hearing his choked tears as he pretended to sleep, desperate to offer what comfort he might but knowing ‘twould not be welcome.
As he stares at him, there in his bedroom, the silhouette of him dark against the distant moonlight, he tries to imagine a worse fate for he who he holds most dear: held fast by his greatest Enemy, he who turned his family to ash, forced to do his bidding, reduced to nothing more than a conduit for his vengeance. He who dedicated his entire life, his entire purpose and being to ensuring that no child would know the horror of finding their home destroyed by Nidhogg’s horde.
Nay, he cannot fathom it.
He looks at Estinien there, shoulders straight, head held high though he knows well how exhausted he is, how Nidhogg seethes just below the surface. Still fighting, always. He is so very proud.
“I promise,” he rasps, swallowing down his revulsion. It will not come to that, he assures himself. He is the strongest man I know. He will not falter.
He sees Estinien’s shoulders slump with relief. “Thank you,” he whispers. He straightens his spine, takes a deep breath, moves to the window–
Aymeric rushes to his side, snatches the helm from his grasp. Estinien squints at him with something akin to trepidation.
“I will make your excuses to the See, for as long as I can,” he states with a steadiness he does not feel, reaching up to tuck Estinien’s hair into some semblance of order. He smoothes out one of his mused eyebrows as well, unable to resist. Estinien purses his lips. Aymeric smiles. Gently, he slides Estinien’s helm down over his ears, latching it firmly beneath his jaw.
And then pulls him down, presses his lips to the tip of his visor.
“When your duty is finished, return to me,” he commands, something desperate gnawing at his chest. “I will await you anon.”
Estinien stares at him a moment, and then knocks his visor against his brow.
“Aye,” he says, and then straightens, grabs his lance from the balcony. Glances back towards him. “I will return,” he promises.
And then he bends his knees, and in a flash, he’s gone, leaping towards the distant rooftops to the West.
“Halone protect him, and lend strength to his lance this one last time,” Aymeric prays, eyes tracing his form as he leaps further, further, until he’s out of sight. “He will need it now, more than ever.”
–------
And months later, upon bloodstained stone, the mangled cry of Vidofnir ringing in his ears, he looks to the body of his dearest friend, corrupted beyond measure, the red veins of hatred burning bright upon his skin, and he remembers: the trust Estinien placed in him, on that fateful night. The promise he made.
With shaking hands, he pulls back the string, aims his arrow at the heart of the ones he holds most dear, and fires.